An equal number of the most daring fighters, the best horsemen and best armed must make a terrible fray, and one or the other must break soon. It was the band of Rafe Norris which “could not stand the pressure,” and after a bloody engagement of five minutes’ duration, during which many a blow was given and taken and many revolvers emptied—not without effect, the broken band of Norris reeled backward and fled for the entrance of the ravine, with the men of the brigade upon their haunches. The deep glen swallowed them up, when, as if by magic, the entrance to the glen bristled with lances held by Indians, who well know how to use them, forming an impenetrable obstacle to any further advance. A single shout from Dave Farrell and his men broke to left and right, one half led by Old Pegs and the other by himself, and making a circuit they met upon the spot where the battle had commenced. “Hot work, boys,” said Dave as he passed his hand across his heated brow. “If it had not been for those cursed lances we would have been on their cruppers yet, but no horsemen in the world could break through those lances as they are posted now; but we can drive them out.” “I’ll take the job,” said Old Pegs. “I only want ten men.” “Take them,” cried Dave, shortly, “and when the pass is clear signal us to advance.” Old Pegs picked out his men and rode away at a cracking pace, accompanied by two men to bring back the horses. In the meantime the British force were grouped in the rear of their Indian allies, ready to meet the attack should the enemy attempt to break through. What was their surprise to see the trappers dismount and begin to lounge about, just out of rifle range, making no effort to advance. “They’ve sent for help, I reckon,” said a dark-browed, ruffianly looking fellow who had command of the whites in the detachment who guarded the pass. “What d’ye say, Injun?” Injun John, who since the death of Half-breed Jack had command of the Sioux, nodded gravely in reply. “He has gone for Whirlwind and the Blackfeet. Wagh; the Sioux do not fear the Blackfeet dogs.” “That must be it,” replied the white leader, evidently puzzled, “but I don’t know why he took twelve men with him. We might make another dash at them, boys.” “No you don’t!” replied one of the men. “I didn’t enlist for this sort of work, and though I’ll go as far as any man in the interest of the Company, I don’t feel called on to lose my scalp.” “You’re a dreadful cautious boy, Ned,” said the leader. “So cautious that it looks almost like cowardice.” “I think I can _prove_ I ain’t a coward,” said the man addressed, drawing a revolver and covering the form of his leader. “Back yer opinion, Jim Diggs; draw iron.” “I cave!” said Jim Diggs, waving aside the obnoxious weapon. “I didn’t say you was a coward, but I said you was dreadful cautious—and so you be.” “Caution is a good thing ain’t it, Jim?” said the man, still covering him with the deadly weapon.